Breaking Ritual
by The-Music-of-hands
Summary: What do you do, when you break the only thing that you think makes love constant? -Reeve-Yuffie-


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**_Disclaimer: I wish that I could afford to wish that I could own them...haha._**

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**Breaking Ritual**

In the kitchen of her apartment, stacked neatly in orderly rows set up against a creamy backdrop of alternating salmon and beige, are her cups. She can barely reach them, but it was never a problem before, because she climbs up like a little kid and gets the cup she wants for that day. Sometimes, on days that rain, or days that snow—mostly Friday evenings—she'll dodge the steam from a cooking pot, and grab two of them.

In general, they're Wutinian originated cups, but there are some among the dull that are brilliant flecks of originality. Some have vines spiraling down into cursive lettering, and others are cut into the shape of Materia, one in particular she bought while abroad. It's round and squat, another russet round sphere resting on the handle with two perfectly coiled patches of blush. The exterior is green, a bright throbbing lime, and on the front surface is a beaming little face complete with dot-like eyes and a curving impish smile. She was originally thinking for herself, since she thought that in particular it looked like her in some of those rare moments where she actually stood still enough to represent a charming puckered grin. But then he had come over two Fridays later, and it'd already started to become a sort of ritual for them.

She'd grab two cups and she'd make the special Friday Tea leaves, set far in the corner for when he came around. Then they'd work on the evening meal, chatting about everything but work. Or, more like she'd set to work on dinner, because she was greatly inauspicious and didn't trust him in the kitchen. At all…

But one day, she'd been looking at her cups while he sat in the tall backed kitchen chairs, babbling on about which razor he preferred to use, and it so happened that she picked the green one, along with a charcoal black.

The black one was amiably her most favorite among the collection. It had a dusty charcoal feel on the outside, and a scarlet interior, painted with miniature cherry blossoms all along the inside of the rim. She'd found it long ago on a treasure hunting quest with a man named 'Zack'. She'd dolefully given him the Money—and Materia— found inside the chest, but then he'd found the cup nestled in the corner.

She'd immediately taken to it.

Back then, it was as black as night, and the inside shone of ruby lacquer, the flowers as vibrant as the ones inside her backyard garden.

The man named Zack had folded a crane, a dark gray one out of standard SOLDIER type paper, and he'd taped it to the inside. The bird burned along with the memory of him, but the cup remained to be used, gradually fading from a moonlit raven to a weary dusty grey. She'd decided that it was long time she used it again, and at the long faded memories of sunny days and naivety, she smiled, setting both cups on the counter.

He'd taken a liking to the lime green cup, turning it around and around in his palm while slurping messily at the oversweet tea inside. He'd said he didn't know why, but it grew on him. He liked it. He wouldn't use any other cup.

So every Friday, using them became a sort of sacrament.

She keeps those on the counter on Fridays, the black one, worn but still pulsing with vibrancy, and the green one, smiling and jovial with its little friend perched comfortably on its shoulder. She doesn't ever use the green cup anymore, instead always using the black one. If she dared drink out of the other one, it'd be like stealing a part of him, or taking something of his that's belongs.

But she can't bear to give it to him. Oh, she's thought about it many times, but for some reason, it belongs here in her apartment, right next to the gray cup. She thinks, with a weary sigh directed at the clock, that if she gives it away, then he won't have a reason to come over any more.

And then she'll be alone.

But, it's already past ten, he's two hours late, and she's reheated the kettle four times in the past fort-five minutes, just staring, staring, staring at the walls, and wishing in her head that the front door would just slam open. The water whistles again, and she doesn't hurry to turn it off, eventually lumbering her way to the burner, half dejected and half pissed that he hasn't even called. She practically throws the tea leaves inside the sieve, and then carelessly pours the scalding hot water into the cups, before whipping around at the sound of boots on linoleum. Water splashes against her wrist, a knee jerk reaction for her, and she drops the kettle, swinging her hand to the sink in a wide flurried arc. Something crashes, and she winces, hoping, hoping, and hoping that it's the black one.

Luck never came that easy…

It's split into easily five pieces, some large, some small, and small pricks of heat burn along the length of her eyelashes, tingling the blotching skin beneath her eyes. A small drop of warmth finds its way down her cheek. And her hand is completely forgotten, not to mention his looming figure towering above her in a concerned swoop. Instead, all she can see are the blurred pieces of a lime green cup, one particularly large piece wedged underneath the counter. Her shorts are rising up on her legs, her socks smudged with brown and black from cleaning earlier, her hair is falling in her face, he's trying to talk to her, and all she can think about is a damn cup.

She mutters something broken. It was a mug, but at the same time it was a symbol of something, a shattered little prolongation of their lives that had remained constant until that moment. It had been something he'd loved, something she let him used for the sole reason of seeing him content and happy.

It was gone.

She half expects him to walk out; winking in that little boy way that he'll buy himself his own tea and then promptly make it at his own place.

But, he doesn't, instead, he gingerly presses a cool cloth to her pulsing burn, and picks up the pieces, setting them one by one on the counter. His tone is soft, smooth, and before she knows what's happening, he presses a soft pressure of lips against her head, and smirks, tilting his head while still kneeling in front of her.

"So, what's for dinner?"

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Six months later, he places the last box with his former address on the floor of the salmon beige living room, and sits down on the couch besides her, sipping from a cat shaped cup, while she smiles into the navy blue of hers. His free arm gestures at the movie flickering on the tiny screen, and she chuckles, looking at two familiar shapes set up on a shelf above the T.V.

One is scraped, and faded, and the other is taped, glued, both shining brightly like a gray and lime patchwork quilt.

In front of them, there are two lime green paper cranes.

And she thinks with a smile, setting her cup down to catch him in an unwary kiss, with each other, maybe they won't be so lonesome anymore.

_End_

_A/N_

_Ah, before I can say anything there are roughly two things in this story that represent Reeve and Yuffie's growing relationship. _

_The color green—or the green of the cup--__symbolizes both immaturity and growth. The growth in their relationship, and the immaturity of her thinking that it was the only thing that kept him around. _

_The Crane—as stated in her past treasure hunt with none other than Zack and the two cranes on the shelf at the end—represents loneliness, as cranes usually are seen in solo numbers. So if there are two, it is obvious the loneliness won't be there anymore._

_Anyway, besides this extremely long note, I've been dying to write a "Yuffie/Reeve" because they're just perfect, Yay! Feedback's great, and I think I'll soon write another one…_

_Until then, _

_~TMoh_


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